The International Assassin A Sexy Times Crime Thriller Read Online Free PDF Page B

myself with, not that I would ever consider such an option. This was the first time I had ever visited a police cell and the experience was much less entertaining than watching vicious grannies being banged up on Midsomer Murders . A nasty room with a bare bed and a stainless steel toilet that didn’t flush had no seat and was blocked with cheap toilet paper that wasn’t even quilted velvet. I hoped to God I would escape this place before I needed to pay a visit since the prospect of wiping ones bottom on such poor quality paper would make sandpaper seem preferable. The cell door clanked shut and I was alone. 
     
    Incarcerated. 
     
    I’m sure the entire police station expected me to cry like a spoilt rich child and demand release but I didn’t give them the satisfaction.
    I had declined the offer of a phone call. The sensible thing to do would have been to call Daddy and have his army of masonic Oxbridge lawyers ring up the Chief Constable and have my release expedited but I didn’t want to explain the circumstances of my current predicament to my family. It would be preferable to be thought missing and kidnapped than face the social disgrace of being arrested which would no doubt mean the threat of months of Champagne-less rehab in some hellhole retreat in Utah for over-privileged wrong-doers and celebrities or worse - having my trustfund withdrawn.
    I had no idea how long they would keep me locked up for, I somewhat doubted Johnny would turn into a knight in shining armour and pull some strings to have me released. I wondered who would feed poor Foxy. I was sure the callous brute would sell him on Ebay to some Essex salon owner first chance he got. 
    As I lay on my bed I considered all the ways I would have my revenge on the manipulative swine once I was released. I considered vividly every option from smashing his face in with a house brick to castrating him with a potato peeler.
    After several hours banged up like a juvenile delinquent it started to feel like the Shawshank Redemption , I half expected Morgan Freeman to come in and offer me a poster of Lana del Rey and a rock hammer to make my escape. Unfortunately the only visitor was the burly lesbian WPC with a cold cup of tea and a slice of over-buttered soggy toast. The whole experience was, I imagined, what a night at a chain-hotel felt like. 
     
    Probably in Slough. 
     
    When it became clear whatever action PC plod and his gang of flat-footed Columbo’s were undertaking was not going to come to an early conclusion I reluctantly pulled the rough wool blanket over me - which thankfully didn’t smell of piss or dead old people and tried to get some sleep. 
     
    It was cold, uncomfortable and thoroughly disagreeable.

Chapter 4
    I WAS woken up early for yet more culinary torture from the Metropolitan Police’s criminal catering menu, which I declined. I felt dirty and miserable without even a toothbrush to clean my teeth let alone a face pack to hydrate my poor skin. Not that I would want to wash in the filthy basin. 
    They led me back to Room 101 where presumably Big Brother ’s minions would tell me the error of my ways then lead me to a windowless torture cell in the basement for re-education.
    The detective returned and sat down.
    “Sleep well?” he asked cheerily.
    “What do you think?” I replied miserably which only seemed to delight him.
    He probably felt quite smug sleeping in his suburban semi-detached house while I was left to rot in a concrete box for life’s rejects.
    “Well there’s good news for you, and bad news,” he said.
    “Go on. I can’t wait.”
    “The good news is we aren’t charging you with Sean Black’s death. No evidence. No witnesses. On the balance of probabilities CPS wouldn’t be able to make the case stick without motive or a confession.”
    “Goody gumdrops,” I replied.
    “And the bad news is we are charging you with a possession of a illegal firearm.”
    “That’s nice of you.”
    “Still not a